


distance to the sea

by Hornet394



Series: AUs in Which I Give Faramir Functioning Parent(s) [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Boromir Lives, Chapter 2 explores a "what if" faramir didn't make it back to Minas Tirith, Character Death, Childhood, F/M, Family, Faramir goes to Rivendell, Finduilas' A+ Parenting, Fix-It, In chapter 1 at least, Mother-Son Relationship, Palantír(i)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25689622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornet394/pseuds/Hornet394
Summary: In TA 2988 it is not Finduilas who draws her last breath, but Denethor. In the absence of a husband, a Steward, she does what she must for Gondor in his stead.(Every year the sea calls to her, but she is duty bound until the day the king returns.)
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Denethor II/Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Finduilas of Dol Amroth & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Finduilas of Dol Amroth & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: AUs in Which I Give Faramir Functioning Parent(s) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803907
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Largely movie events, supplemented by the books. Chapter 2 is a alternate universe of my alternate universe - in Chapter 1 Finduilas gets both her sons back - she is not that lucky in another lifetime.

i.

Finduilas holds her husband’s hand as he dies. They have not seen their children for five days now, but Finduilas knows her proud husband would not want the last memory their children have of him to be of a wizened, wrinkled man. She cannot bring herself to leave.

Her handmaiden, Mudrien, sits with her for the whole night, trying to coax Finduilas to drink something, to eat something. “Think of your children,” Mudrien pleads, “You must be strong for them.”

ii.

She is exceedingly thankful that Imrahil has kept the city from burning itself alive in her absence. “We have leads on the assassin.” He greets her at the door grimly. “The rest of the Lords have agreed to maintain peace in their lands, but they want to know when Boromir will take up the white rod.”

“He is a child.” She spits, weary and mournful. Her beloved is still lying in his own chambers, his body still with heat, and they are already planning to push their first-born to the forefront. Imrahil presses his lips together and says nothing to this.

She tries to brush her hair out of her face, but her strength fails her.

iii.

She dreams of him, of the past. The gardens he had planted in her name, the gentle hands that lifted their newborn babe. 

iv.

Finduilas knows that she has always been weak of health, especially after two pregnancies. Although cruel of her, she had always thought she would pass before her beloved. Never before had she imagined she would be forced to watch her husband wither away, body wracked with poison. Utterly helpless.

She wakes up in separate chambers. There are two weights on the bed next to her. Her boys, her beautiful boys, Faramir clingingly weakly to her dress even as he sleeps, Boromir curled around him protectively.

She dabs away the tears and sits up slowly. The boys do not wake. She reaches for the fruit and cheese that are left out for her, and lights the nearest candle. 

In the dim light, she can see how fraught her children are. Boromir’s brows are furrowed, and Faramir’s expression is not one that a five year old child should bear. She cannot imagine either of them sitting on the black seat. A month ago Faramir had just waddled up to her with a poem he had written for her. He had been so happy, so clever. A month ago Boromir was pestering her for extra cookies after training. Her brave, bold boy. And hadn't her beloved sent for books on dragons and heroes for Faramir? Hadn't he put his work down to spar with Boromir, ordered the kitchen to serve his favourite pudding? Now her children have no father.

Something wet splashes against the back of her hand, and she realizes that she is crying. Mortified, she presses her hand to her mouth, trying to curb the tears, but they are beyond her control. Boromir makes a soft noise in his sleep, and then he is blinking awake, grey eyes staring at her groggily.

“Ma...?” 

v.

She gathers Boromir into her arms, and when Faramir begins to stir, does so to, sitting both children in her lap. Soon Boromir will not fit, and soon Faramir will not as well. In the plainest of tones she explains to them that their father is gone. Boromir begins to cry, buries his face into her hair. Faramir begins to cry as well, but it is more so due to his older brother being distressed.

“We still have each other.” Finduilas comforts them, planting kisses onto the top of their heads. 

vi.

She is in her rights to grieve, but Gondor has no time for it. She cleans her children and wipes their tears away, leaving them to fall asleep in each other’s arms as she changes and leaves to find Imrahil.

She finds him in the hall, having supper with the rest of the Council. It is exceedingly quiet, even the most robust of men picking at their food moodily. They rise when she enters, and she pauses at the doorway for a long moment.

This is her beloved’s city, and she will not let it fall to ruin.

vii.

No one makes a noise as she sits down in the seat reserved for the Steward. Mudrien sets her plate of food in front of her, and resumes her position behind Finduilas.

“I apologise for my lateness.” She says, eyes sweeping over the gathered men. “Please, return to your meals.”

Lord Melchion is the first to do so, heartily. As long as there is someone sitting upon that seat, he is happy to leave his coin in the city’s treasuries. Captain Callathor, of the Tower Guard, is the most unhappy. 

“My lady.” He says, a dark expression on his face, “I intend no disrespect, but you are not the Steward of Gondor. Where is Lord Boromir, the rightful heir? And where is Lord Faramir?”

Finduilas forces herself to remain calm, and starts to cut into the venison on her plate. “As all children do, they are grieving their father. And when the summer draws to a close, I will be sending Boromir into military service, as all heirs to Stewards do before having to assume their responsibilities.”

Lord Melchion and the others that had followed his example stops eating. “My lady!” Nallon, Warden of the Houses of Healing, stutters, “Lord Boromir is but ten years of age!”

“Yet it is tradition.” Chief Archivist Tobedir interjects. “One cannot be an effective Steward without first proving himself in the defense of Gondor. Lord Boromir will have years of study to catch up.”

Captain Callathor, Finduilas observes, is looking at Imrahil, instead of her. 

viii.

“You reminded me of Father.” Imrahil tells her as he escorts her back to the chambers she has temporarily taken up. “He will be pleased that at least one of us has inherited his diplomatic talents.”

Finduilas snorts. “I do what I must for my children.” She answers him. “And the seat of Steward is far more perilous than whatever the forces of darkness can throw at us.”

Imrahil inclines his head in agreement and stays silent.

ix.

Oh, how she wishes she has more time to mourn her beloved. The funeral will be held but two days later, and she needs to bring the Council under her control.

How she wishes her children has more time to mourn. But she sends them off to Tobedir for their lessons, knowing that the man will understand what she needs him to teach them. No more easy lessons of fantasies and stories. There is nothing left for them but lessons of leaders.

They are children no more!

x.

She starts crying again as soon as she steps foot into her husband’s study. Mudrien quietly shuts the door behind them, and Imrahil clasps her shoulder in comfort. “I am fine.” She brushes him off, but takes his handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “We must get to work. I must learn everything that my husband knew. Mudrien, you will assist me. Little brother, I need you to do something.”

“I am always at your service, sister.” He vows. 

Finduilas smiles at him through her tears. He has always been such a blessing, to Dol Amroth, and now to Minas Tirith. 

xi.

As he leaves to do her bidding, she pens a letter to her father. She writes to her father dearest about sending Imrahil’s wife and child to Minas Tirith, and apologises for borrowing his only son for at least a few months. She has Mudrien run it to the quickest courier, and begins to dig through the piles of scrolls and books that Mudrien has sorted for her.

Yet she is greeted by the sight of his familiar handwriting, the broad strokes of his hand, identical to those on the letters he had written her a decade ago. 

She has a kingdom to run in her beloved’s stead.

xii.

She has more dreams in one week than she has in the past 30 years of her life. She dreams of Captain Thorongil this time, dressed in the clothes of a traveller, standing on top of a gorge. She has the distinct feeling that this is yet to come for many years, yet Thorongil looks no different.

Her beloved had hated him. She never asked why.

xiii.

She summons Captain Callathor to her after her husband has been entombed. He walks in briskly, but she can tell that he is unnerved by the location of her choice. She may not have her husband’s gift of reading the hearts and minds of others, but the Elven blood in her lineage has given her other talents.

“My lady.” He greets warily. “You have asked for me.”

“Indeed.” She says. Her hand overlaps the stone likeness of her husband’s, already impossibly cold to touch. “I would like you to take over the military teaching of Lord Faramir.”

He starts lightly. “What of Lord Boromir?”

“Lord Boromir will be Steward as soon as he comes of age. He will not be permitted to see combat beyond these walls. Perhaps Osgiliath, if he is inclined to reclaim it.” She answers him, still not looking away from her husband’s final resting place, “Is that not what you want? To push my son into the seat of Steward, to rob him of his honour as a warrior? You will condemn both of my sons to paths they have no opportunity to choose?”

He panics, then, for before he was Captain and soldier he was but a seamstress’ only son, and talking to women in power is not his strong suit. Furthermore, he is a proud father of three. Two sons and a daughter. “My lady, I- I do not mean-”

“You are the Captain of the Tower Guard.” Finduilas cuts him off, dragging her eyes away from the stone mimicry of her husband’s. “I would like you to train a general, a leader of the battlefield, yet loyal to the throne. A man who can assist the Steward and protect our borders. I am unsure of whether Boromir or Faramir would be best suited for the task. Their father would have favoured Boromir as Steward, I am sure, but as their mother, I have my own thoughts to offer.”

She wrenches herself away from the tomb with effort, and moves closer to a sweating Captain Callathor, drowning in the black velvet mourning robes. Her own dress of mourning feels as light as a feather. “Will you assist me?” She asks. “Will you keep Gondor safe? Will you offer your guidance and judgement to my sons? Will you help me train the protector of the realm, the last defense against the forces of darkness? Will you honour your oaths?”

“My lady-” He starts, but Finduilas gives him no time for further thought. “Do you swear it?” She presses, “Do you dare swear to the mother of your charges?”

He swallows nervously, but then he kneels down in front of her, drawing out his sword and pressing the hilt to his chest in a display of fealty. “I swear to honour my oath as a Captain of Gondor, my lady.” He says, something new glinting in his eyes, “I swear to guide the two young Lords in the art of war they choose, and I will defend them with my life or death.”

xiv.

If the rest of the Council is surprised by Captain Callathor’s steadfast support of her, they do not show it. In the absence of a Captain-General, Captain Callathor’s rank is of the highest, and the rest of the captains fall in line behind him. Chief Archivist Tobedir has always been on her side, being the one privy to the most of her secrets in the twelve years she had been by her beloved’s side. Warden Nallon stays out of most political discussions, and if he is unnerved by Finduilas’ insistence on sending Boromir to military training at the age of ten, he does not voice any further objections. Imrahil produces letters of support from the other Lords of Gondor who have not come to Minas Tirith, and thus Lord Melchion has no reason to complain.

With the laws of old that Imrahil has found, they name her Steward Regent; and she will hold the white rod until her sons are ready to return home, or until her death.

xv.

She dreams of the white tree burning. 

xvi. 

She shoots up, dislodging Faramir from where he is pillowed on her arm. “Ma...?” He murmurs lightly, struggling to open his eyes. She shushes him and pets his hair until he falls asleep again. She should stop encouraging his reliance on her, for tomorrow he will meet Captain Callathor, as Boromir is ferried off to the barracks.

But she is so weak, and her children are so strong. If only for one moment she can lean on them, she will selfishly do so.

xvii.

She carries Faramir to his own bed and tucks him in, then she puts on an outer robe and walks out of their chambers. The light is about to break the horizon. 

Her footsteps take her to her husband’s study, where she has spent almost all her time for a month now. There is a door in the study, a plain wooden one locked with the heaviest of locks. It should lead to the top of the tower, Imrahil states, but they had only found the key buried beneath some old books the day prior.

Now she takes it from its hiding place and turns the lock.

The stairs wind up and up and she is almost out of breath when she makes it to the top, and she has to lean against the wall and rest until her heartbeat calms. There are no windows in the chamber she emerges in, only a dark and round spherical object resting on a podium.

Curious, she makes to lift the stone up, to observe it more clearly.

She screams.

xviii.

Her son, pierced with many arrows, the Horn of Gondor echoing through the woods.

xix.

A pyre of flames, a funeral barge, a broken sword.

xx.

The Nazgûl, sweeping over their city, their shadows casting frightening figures on her children.

xxi.

Captain Thorongil riding a horse, a quiver of arrows on his back.

xxii.

Her son wedding a lady in white.

xxiii.

“My lady!” The guard who has heard her scream comes bursting into the chambers, and he tears the stone away from her hands. He throws it to the corner of the chamber, catching her as she falls. She scrabbles at his armour, trying to seize onto something. “Leave me! Imrahil...” she wheezes out, “Now!”

He lays her down gently on the stone floor, and dashes out to do her bidding. From where she lies, she can see the stone, but whilst before it had been dark and silent, there are now orange flecks dancing beneath its surface, and there is a low thrumming noise that fills her ears. Now she wishes that she had asked the guard to cover it before he had left, but she has no more strength inside of her.

xxiv.

“I believe it is a palantír.” Tobedir says gravely. She has been bed-ridden for days, tended to by Nallon personally as Callathor and Tobedir speaks for her at the Council. Now her children have been herded out by Callathor - Boromir to the barracks, Faramir to the archives to learn of military strategy. Only at times like these does Finduilas have enough energy to listen to Tobedir’s reports.

“Why was it locked away as such?” She asks, obediently drinking the medicine Nallon holds to her mouth.

“Only the Steward and his heir are permitted to use it, my lady.” He answered, “But there are no records of it being used since the line of Stewards.”

Finduilas eyes the key with trepidation. “Then we must lock it away, too.” She says. “But the study is no place for an invaluable object. Cover it and take it to the treasuries. Put it in a pouch and sew it shut, so that none will stumble upon it by accident.”

xxv.

She sees her children less and less now. Captain Callathor has Faramir busy in the archives and training grounds everyday, and Boromir only returns to her on the weekends. In the course of one month she has not only lost her husband, but her children as well.

xxvi.

“Father refuses to send Elphir here.” Imrahil tells her gently over breakfast. “He has written to say that I can stay for as long as you need me, but there must be an heir in Dol Amroth.”

Finduilas sets her cutlery down. Faramir is eavesdropping unsubtly from where he sits next to her. “I will not have you parted from your newborn.” She says firmly. “You should return to Dol Amroth. Faramir, eat your greens.”

Faramir pouts but obediently shovels the vegetables into his mouth. As a reward, Finduilas gives him extra pieces of chicken from her plate - the grease settles uncomfortably at the bottom of her stomach. He beams at her widely before happily digging in.

“Watch your manners.” She chastises him gently when Faramir tries to grab his food with a greasy hand.

“Sister.” Imrahil quietly calls for her attention. “You have a greater need of me.”

Finduilas lifts Faramir into her lap, then, and the boy squirms happily as he settles down.

“Go home, Imrahil.” She tells him. “Children do not wait for you.”

xxvii.

“Mother!” 

Finduilas jumps in her seat, and watches her first-born climb in through the window like a scoundrel. “Boromir!” She scolds, quickly getting up to watch Boromir land on his feet proudly. “You should be in training!”

“I am!” The boy bounces on his heels and jumps into her embrace. He’s grown so tall now, just like his father.

“Fetch some honey cakes from the kitchen.” She instructs Mudrien, then draws him to sit at the armchair by the fireplace. “Why are you here, my son?”

“We were tasked with finding a hiding spot in the city,” He announces proudly, too energised to sit, “The instructors will never find me here.”

“You sneak!” Finduilas laughs, but is glad for this respite. 

After a round of honey cakes Captain Callathor sends Faramir in, who jumps straight into his brother’s arms. 

Finduilas doesn’t get any work done for the whole afternoon.

xxviii.

Mithrandir seemingly materialises in her courts one day. Both Boromir and Faramir stare up at him in awe, and, with only a slight sentiment of guilt, she welcomes him gladly. Her beloved had disliked Mithrandir rather vocally, but privately Finduilas had enjoyed the Wizard’s companionship, and sees no issue with her children learning the wisdom of the Istar, if only a fragment.

She is, admittedly, curious about what Mithrandir seeks from their archives, both as a scholar and a ruler. But with the way Faramir trots after Mithrandir, starry-eyed, she will not need to do the asking herself.

xxix.

The questionable morality of manipulating children does not entirely sit well with her, but she helplessly tells herself that it would be inappropriate for her, as a mother, to stop Faramir from rattling on about all the books he had read with Mithrandir, all the tales he had been told. 

There does not seem to be a coherent theme from what he tells, however, and Mithrandir comes and goes over the years. Finduilas is afraid of asking too many questions, for fear that Mithrandir will one day leave and not return. For the sake of Gondor, her son, and herself.

xxx.

Boromir and Faramir have always been close, without her prompting. The brothers are eager for one another’s attention, not prone to bouts of jealousy and rivalry that she has heard other children are susceptible to. Indeed, Imrahil’s two sons are still babes, yet their squabbles have reached her ears. 

Nallon has assigned a woman from the Houses of Healing, a woman named Ioreth, to tend to her personally. Mudrien is slightly disgruntled by having her responsibilities superseded by Ioreth, but does not make any mention of it to Finduilas.

xxxi.

“Mother.” Boromir arrives at the study on one of his rest days, Faramir trailing after him like a particularly obedient shadow.

Mudrien takes leave and closes the door behind the two of them. “What is it, my sons?” She asks, rubbing her wrist discreetly. Boromir exchanges a look with Faramir. “We would- I would like to speak with you.”

In puzzlement, Finduilas settles into the armchair by the fireplace with Boromir’s help. “What is it?” She repeats, her son meeting her gaze the same way men do. 

He tilts his chin up, straightens his back, shoulders squared. And then he gulps, and he is a 15 year old child again. “It is about my training, mother.” He says, a suddenly flush rising in his face. “Of how Faramir is favoured above me.” 

Finduilas frowns, and Faramir is surreptitiously staying quiet behind his brother. She nods to Boromir, gesturing for him to continue. He gulps again, but his voice is steady and confident. "Faramir gets to do whatever he wants. He can listen to the Wizard tell stories. He can go hunting with Callathor.”

“Captain Callathor.” Faramir corrects instinctively. “Captain Callathor.” Boromir amends, then continues. “I know there are talks of sending him to Ithilien when he turns 15. I was not allowed to do any of those when I was as young as he, and I am still bound to Pelennor."

Finduilas purses her lips, considering how to approach this. Does she treat him like her child, her charge, or does she treat him as a soldier of Gondor? As the son of the Steward? Late Steward, even.

“You are the eldest, and will become Steward.” She finally says. “A Steward must stay within the walls of the city. Freedom is not a gift you can receive. Faramir, however, is not the eldest.”

"Well then I don't want to be Steward!" Boromir exclaims, his expression one of childish horror. "Faramir can be the Steward!"

Faramir wrinkles his nose in distaste. “No.” He says mulishly, just like his brother. “I want to travel and meet the elves.” Finduilas stares at both of her children helplessly. “But one of you must.” She says weakly, and as if on cue Mudrien returns with her foul-tasting medicines. 

Boromir looks at the ground, his expression firm and set. Faramir clings to his brother’s hand in bewilderment. Boromir looks at his younger brother, then, and there is something indulgent in his expression that is painful to Finduilas.

She has been ever absent from their lives, crippled by the white rod and by her own failing body. Boromir has had to be father and brother to Faramir, and even in a moment as such, she can see the resignation in his gaze, the grim determination that both he and she share. A parent would do anything for their children, and Boromir is already made father in her beloved’s absence. 

Boromir makes no verbal promise, just asks for her leave and takes Faramir away with him. But she already knows his choice, even if he cannot bring himself to say it.

xxxii.

Her boys grow up, Boromir quickly given command, while Faramir leaves for Ithilien a few times a year. She has no personal experience of war, but she thinks that she had made the right decision. Boromir needed the barracks to establish himself as a leader among men, while Faramir thrived under the guidance of Captain Callathor.

Mudrien airs a room far nearer to the study for her abode. Her new room has a large window that looks over the Pelennor, and in the distance, Osgiliath. Boromir has retaken the city of old and his name travels far and wide. He has remained to fortify the city. Meanwhile, Faramir is lost somewhere in Ithilien, the way of the rangers too secret for even her to be privy to.

She wakes up many times in the night, unable to ascertain if her dreams were merely dreams.

xxxiii.

There is a lingering thought in her mind, in her dreams. A conviction. A belief. Even as she writes the proclamation to announce Boromir as Captain-General, this thought remains in the forefront.

Boromir will not live to become Steward. Just as the black seat took his father, he is not destined to wield the white rod. 

xxxiv.

"I have been in conversation with the rest of the captains." Callathor clears his throat. "Lord Boromir is the better soldier; his ingenuity and instinct on the battlefield is unparalleled. Further, he is able to inspire his comrades, his men. It is a great gift. Lord Faramir is best positioned among the Rangers. Like his brother, he wins over the heart of his men and comrades easily. He is well learned in languages and history, able to engage in diplomacy and reconnaissance well. He has the making of, if he is not already, a brilliant strategist. Either of them will excel as Captain-General. I cannot bear the responsibility of choosing."

Finduilas mulls this over. "Who would you see as your Steward, then? If your decision comes as such a dilemma."

Callathor hesitates. "Both and neither, my lady." At her questioning glance, he continues. "As a soldier, I would see Lord Boromir as Steward. But my wife would favour Lord Faramir, this I know. The people talk not of Lord Boromir and Lord Faramir apart. To imagine one without the other would be a great loss to Gondor."

xxxv.

Finduilas names Boromir Captain-General in front of the Council, and Faramir Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. They both kneel before her and accept their positions with the grace and propriety becoming of their stations, and with a pang Finduilas realizes she gazes not upon her two sons, but her husband’s sons.

xxxvi.

As her children grow older her body fails her, and will continue to do so under the shadow of Mordor. Already Mudrien has to read out and write correspondence and reports for her.

"Come to Dol Amroth," Imrahil pleads in his letters. "Surely either Boromir or Faramir can take up the white rod. Surely they can spare you."

"It is my choice." She answers him. "I detest Minas Tirith as much as I long for the sea, which is immense. But I need my sons far more than anything else, even if the day comes that they no longer have need of me. If death take me, so be it."

xxxvii.

She dreams of holding her children in her arms, mere babes with all the wonderment at the world. Faramir tottering after his older brother, Boromir attempting to carry his younger brother and scrunching up his face, trying not to cry, when he fails. Boromir asleep in Faramir’s bed, still clutching their toy soldiers and horses. 

Everytime they return home she holds them in the privacy of her rooms, kisses their cheeks until they squirm and wriggle away, laughing, saying that they are too old for this.

xxxviii.

In the rare moments all three of them sit down for supper together, she tallies all of their wounds and injuries, the creases in their faces, the weariness and anguish, and prays that one day she can carry their burdens away. Yet her boys are growing up so quickly, too quickly, and she cannot follow.

xxxix.

Three decades after the passing of her husband, her children gather at her rooms once more. Faramir quietly tells of his dream the night prior. “I do not understand it.” He says hesitantly. “Perhaps we should go to Imladris and seek for Lord Elrond’s help. Mithrandir may be there as well.”

Finduilas slowly sips at her medicine, deep in thought. Boromir, always the more impatient of her two sons, volunteers himself, the worry in his eyes apparent to all.

"It is I who should go," Faramir shakes his head adamantly. "You are the Captain-General, the last defense of Gondor. You cannot go. In fact, you must stay and become Steward."

“Faramir, you know I do not want it.” Boromir says hastily, “You are far more suited to lead the people than I am. I know only the art of war. It is a dangerous path to Imladris. Let me go."

“The sword that was broken.” Finduilas interjects finally. “We are seeing the return of Narsil, then. Of Isildur’s heir.”

Both her sons turns to look at her. “But of course!” Faramir exclaims. “The sword that was broken must refer to Narsil! Isildur’s Bane, then- we are talking of the return of the line of Isildur!”

"But what of Isildur's Bane?" Boromir interrupts, "Was Isildur not slain by orc-arrow?"

Finduilas frowns, casting her mind back to Mithrandir. At the corner of her eye she spots Faramir stiffen.

“The dream came to Faramir,” She announces, “Faramir will go to Imladris and ask for Lord Elrond’s assistance.”

Boromir sighs loudly, but does not make any more protest. Faramir meets her gaze, and nods thankfully. Of course she recognizes it too, the worry and fear in Faramir’s eyes, the same look that Boromir so blatantly shows. Only Boromir doesn’t see it, or perhaps he is too clouded by his own.

xl.

The days without Faramir drags on. Finduilas cannot help but worry, of course. Her sons had taken over many of the duties of the Stewardship over the years, and they are accustomed to each other’s help. Many times Boromir would turn and say his younger brother’s name, or walk halfway to Faramir’s chambers before his mind catches up. He has given the Horn of Gondor to his younger brother, making him promise to bring it back.

Finduilas, too, misses her youngest terribly. She should not play favourites, but Faramir is hers, just as Boromir is her husband’s. Faramir inherited her love for books and music, for poetry, whereas Boromir grew bored of them easily and would run off to swing swords. She had held her youngest to her bosom when he was just a pink-faced baby, as Boromir’s tiny hands fisted at the side of the bed, wordlessly begging to be lifted into her arms as well.

She is bed-bound more and more. Boromir still refuses to sit on the black seat, but he is Steward in all but name already. The lines in his face are growing more prominent, but he always makes time to see her. 

“You must swear into the office of Steward.” She pleads, finding little strength to do otherwise. He merely presses his lips and kisses her on the forehead. She knows that he is waiting for Faramir to return. 

xli.

They hear nothing from Faramir for a long time. At some point they receive a letter, sent by an Elvish messenger from Faramir, stating that he had to pursue his dreams further. Boromir sighed and almost crumpled the letter up, before thinking twice of it. Instead, he smooths its creases and passes it onto her to keep and treasure. 

xlii.

She is taking a walk through the gardens. When she held the white rod, she had had no time to simply take leisurely walks through the flowers her husband had planted for her. They have been well kept over the years, of course, but she is too old to tend to them herself, the days of her youth wasted behind a desk.

The Horn of Gondor sounds in the faint recesses of her mind.

xliii.

She collapses straight into Mudrien’s arms, and as her loyal servant calls for help, the Horn of Gondor rings in her mind, over, and over, and over again.

xliv.

“We should not let the halflings go.” Anborn hisses to Madril as they watch the three creatures go further and further away. “They must answer to the Lady and Lord.” He gives a vague wave at the direction of Madril’s chambers, where bad tidings lie.

“We will not desecrate Captain Faramir’s memory by ignoring his last orders.” Madril says aloud, trying to convince Anborn as much as he is convincing himself. “You saw the writing, and the code. If the Captain decided this as the best course of action, then we will carry it out. Come, let us not dwell on this further. Osgiliath needs us.”

xlv.

Captain Callathor falls in Osgiliath, crushed by the Nazgûl’s beasts while covering the retreat of his men. By all means he should not have left the city, but Boromir needed someone in Osgiliath, and Faramir wasn’t here. Instead, the Horn of Gondor returns to the city ahead of him, cloven in two.

That night a high fever strikes Finduilas, and she lies in bed for days, swimming in and out of consciousness. How cruel the Valar is, to keep her alive so that she should be the witness of all this pain and sorrow, the last days of her house.

When she finally regains enough awareness, Boromir sits at the seat of Steward, the white rod across his lap, and his crippling grief and sorrow settling into the chair beneath him. He takes an empty room as his study, and locks it to all, even her.

xlvi.

Faramir- Faramir is not dead. That is what the halfling brings them. “Mithrandir, oh, Mithrandir.” Finduilas sobs, clinging to the man’s wrinkled hands, “How fearful have I been of all the tidings that have come, and how joyous I am to see you!”

Then she bends down in front of the hobbit, squishes his cheeks as a mother does, and proclaims that he is too thin for her liking. Boromir, the age flung out of him like he had cast off a heavy cloak, laughs and ruffles the hobbit’s hair, and announces that a quest to the kitchens is in order.

xlvii.

Finduilas finds her first-born in a strangely morose mood that night. “What ails you, dear one?” she asks, drawing him to sit down next to the fire. He clasps her hands, stares intently at her. “We have always only had each other.” He starts. “The three of us.”

Finduilas returns his grip and does not correct him. 

“There has always been just the three of us.” Boromir repeats, his eyes searching wildly. “And now your brother is back.” She says soothingly, “He will return to us.”

She has disappointed her first-born, in some way. He withdraws from her, casts his gaze back into the fire, his warmth leaving her. “Yet he fights in another battlefield.” He says bitterly. “He puts his allegiance elsewhere.”

Finduilas frowns, rendered helpless. “You mean Mithrandir?” She presses, “Or, the Council of Elrond? Boromir, you know your brother better than anyone else, even me. Do you trust him so little?”

Boromir sighs, standing up and squaring his shoulders. Her beloved had been like this, before the accursed seat took him. “Rest well, mother.” Boromir tells her absentmindedly. “War is already upon us.”

xlviii.

Finduilas and Mudrien hide in the House of the Dead as the war wages on. Perhaps there is a certain element of irony to it, that the tombs of old would be the final refuge for the women and children of Minas Tirith. Finduilas leans against the resting place of her beloved as Mudrien coordinates the food and blankets according to her orders.

 _Are you proud of me, beloved?_ She thinks fiercely. _Have I done well enough?_

xlix.

Her younger son finds her on the path to the Houses of Healing. There are a few more scars on his skin, and he has developed a tan, but his smile is even more freeing, even more infectious. Something has changed within him, something peaceful and settling and brazen and bold at the same time. They say he had rode with the Rohirrim, cresting over Pelennor and changing the tide of the war. Tears spring to her eyes as she embraces him, as he embraces her.

“Have you seen your brother yet?” She asks him, uncaring of the grim on her son’s armour smeared all over her dress. His face falls, and something aches in her heart. “Not yet.” He says. “I have been searching for hours, but he evades me. I have something urgent to ask of him.”

“He evades you?” She echoes, leading him down the hallway to Boromir’s study. She knows acutely of how Boromir painfully misses his younger brother, and his behaviour is troubling. Yet he had long grown out of an age where she could interfere. Both of her sons have. 

l.

Faramir enters the unfamiliar room all smiles, Finduilas behind him. In a matter of minutes brothers fall apart as the distance between them manifests.

li.

“You left here a Captain of Gondor, my brother,” Boromir seethes, “Yet you have no hesitation to bend the knee in front of a usurper!”

Faramir, reels in shock but refuses to step back. He stands opposite his brother as equals, despite it is now Boromir who holds the white rod. “Neither you nor I have ever wanted to become ruler of this kingdom.” He answers, barely restrained anger in his voice, “Neither you nor I desired to be trapped within the walls of this city, and we have subjected our poor mother to carry our burdens for us. Now comes the true king, who will free both of us from our responsibilities - yet now you seek to cling onto Stewardship? What has overcome you, brother?”

“The ring should have come to Gondor!” Boromir shouts, “And you let it into the hands of some witless halfling to march it straight to Mordor!”

“What’s done is done.” Faramir returns harshly. “Aragorn has given you the utmost respect. It is not to you to deny the return of the king.”

Boromir heaves a sigh, loud and exaggerated. “I am not asking you much, brother.” Faramir’s voice turns to pleading, “I am not asking you to hand over your rule. I am not even asking you to acknowledge Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I am merely asking, nay, begging you to let Aragorn into the city, so he can save Éowyn. Please.”

“I see much, brother.” Boromir growls, as if unhearing of what Faramir has to say. “You had many chances to take it for Gondor, and you failed. Do as you will.” The fire from the hearth is reflected in his eyes, orange flecks upon black orbs. Finduilas’ heart skips a beat, and she quickly leaves the room, ignoring her children’s questioning cries.

Mudrien helps her fling open the doors to the treasury, Tobedir hurrying after her. “Where is it.” She demands frantically, “Where is that accursed palantír?”

Tobedir raises a hand and points to an empty podium. “Mother?” Faramir asks behind her, her brother following. Boromir sucks a huge breath and makes to turn away, but Finduilas latches forward with a strength she should no longer have.

“What have you done, you insolent child?” She says angrily. A wave of dizziness overtakes her and she slides down to the ground, her heart beating rapidly as she struggles to draw in breath. Her children are on their knees next to her, staring worriedly at her as the ringing in her ears fade.

“I only wanted to know...” Boromir is pleading, “I only wanted to see... I did not mean...”

“You fool!” She forces out, grasping for her eldest, touching his face, the worn out lines, the brittleness of his hair, “What have you done to yourself?”

lii.

She comes to in the familiar rooms of the Houses of Healing. Boromir sits by her side, his eyes red-rimmed, but there are no tears. His smile is weak, guilty. “Faramir has gone to see his lady love.” Boromir answers her, “Aragorn... Lord Aragorn has just tended to her.”

“The king has entered the city, then.” She confirms. Boromir nods, rubbing at his temple.

“I don’t understand.” His fingers twitch against the sheets, “How could a thing so small... affect me so much? That I would not realize it until I had hurt those around me.”

“But it is not small at all, my son.” Finduilas says, blinking slowly up at the ceiling. “It looks small, inconsequential, to deceive us, but never forget that they are created by forces far beyond our comprehension. Gods created it and cast it into the world of mortals, and they are turned into poison. It tempts us, yet mocks us, for we are not those destined to wield them. Do not blame yourself, dear one. Luckily you had Faramir stop you before damage was wrought upon Gondor.”

She takes a deep breath, lets her heart rest, then turns to her son. “The air seems a little fresher, the days a little brighter, with the return of the king.” She says lightly. “The long watch of the stewards can finally come to an end.”

liii.

“Mithrandir.” She greets. The wizard is in White now, but he is achingly familiar and unchanging over the long years she has watched over Gondor. She is a young woman again, tentative and frightened, apprehensive of being married to a man she hardly knew anything about. 

“Lady Finduilas.” He greets with a warm smile. “I am glad to see you again.” A pause, then. “You have raised sons worthy of Gondor. You must be proud.”

“I am.” she answers, putting her hand in the crook of Mithrandir’s elbow, letting him escort her down the long corridor with Mudrien trailing behind them. The guise of two elderly people taking a leisurely stroll in the wake of war. 

“I was pleasantly surprised by Faramir, of course.” Mithrandir continues, “Many young men put down their books in favour of swords as they grow older, especially in these times. I was exceedingly glad to see that Faramir has not been lax at his studies. Your eldest, too, carries the bearing of a fine ruler and leader.”

“Boromir has always been well respected in Gondor.” Finduilas supplies delicately, “He does what he must. Faramir, as you may now know, can be quite stubborn when he has set his mind on something.”

They enter the hall where the rest of the military leaders are, and a familiar figure makes Finduilas stop in her tracks.

“Captain Thorongil.” She exclaims with shock, and the image of the man in front of him overlaps with the long visions over the years. Mudrien, too, is clearly startled, but she has always been a strong and unwavering support for Finduilas, and it will not change now.

“Mother.” Faramir strides over to her, “Mother, tell this ridiculous man that I will not be left behind. I will see Frodo and Sam delivered.”

Imrahil stands to one side, showing his annoyance in that boyish way of his, that years of rule not able to stamp that out of him. “Yes, let us send the king and the last of the stewards on a suicidal mission to the Black Gate.” he comments drily.

There is a solemn look on Boromir’s face, but he leans casually against a pillar near Mithrandir. He has been far more quiet since the palantír has been returned to the treasury. 

“Lady Finduilas.” Thorongil inclines his head. “It pleases me to see you in good health.”

Finduilas smiles grimly at him, gratefully sinking into the chair Amrothos brings her. “I am not in good health, Captain, but I may yet see the end of our dark days. Tell me, which of my stubborn sons do you need me to talk some sense into?”

“Mother!” Both Boromir and Faramir chorus. An unknown man in the room snorts at this good-naturedly. He carries the bearing of the Rohirrim. There is an elf, and a dwarf sitting on the steps leading to the King’s throne. 

“Indeed.” Thorongil chuckles, but his smile is weary and does not reach his eyes. “We intend to lead our remaining forces to the Black Gate, to distract Sauron. I intend to bring Lord Boromir with me, and have Faramir remain in the city.”

Faramir makes a soft, displeased noise. He’s very open with the company they keep, a luxury that Finduilas has not delighted in for a long while. How she has missed her sons! 

“Aragorn.” Faramir pleads. “I have followed you thus far, over mountains and under hills, through fire and steel. I will not be left here to wait, fretting over Frodo and Sam.”

“Faramir,” Boromir interjects cautiously, “Don’t you think you’ve had your fair share of travel? Let me have some fun too.”

Faramir blinks, then, and understanding dawns on him. He looks down at Finduilas, his lips pressed in a slight frown. “Come.” Finduilas says lightly, rising to her feet with Mudrien’s help. “In your absence your brother has developed a deep aversion for paperwork. You have much to catch up on.”

His face is inscrutable for a moment, and then he sighs dramatically, laying a hand on Boromir’s shoulder. “I suppose, I will suffer for the sake of my brother.” He declares. “Let it be known that Boromir, son of Denethor, was cowed by paperwork!”

“I am not _cowed_ , dear brother.” Boromir scowls, “I am merely eager to show our king the true mettle of the men of Gondor, not that waving around thing you do.”

Both Thorongil and Mithrandir chuckle at this, and an unbidden smile rises on Finduilas’ face. “Boys.” She chastises teasingly, “Watch your manners in our esteemed company.”

“My lady, you tease me.” Thorongil laughs, and he nods at her respectfully as she makes to leave the hall. 

liv.

She would not say this to Boromir, of course, but Faramir is far more efficient when it comes to administrative affairs. She, too, had little knowledge of military organisation, and it had been the late Captain Callathor who had had to compensate for her lack of experience. Thinking of him makes her bones creak. Boromir serves Gondor well, a true soldier and honoured captain, but it is the mundane work that is the ordeal Gondor has to face in the days ahead.

She walks among the Houses of Healing with Mudrien, speaking to the men and women injured on behalf of her sons. It is on one such occasion that she encounters the object of Faramir’s affections in the garden alone. A familiar dark mantle is draped serenely across her shoulders.

“That used to be mine.” She tells the younger woman. Lady Éowyn whirls around in surprise, her fingers gripping onto the mantle tightly. She is very unlike the ladies of Gondor, Finduilas surmises. There is something honest about her, straightforward and bold, yet no less regal. There is innocence in her that can never be tarnished, and there is strength that makes her formidable. She is cold and aloof, and if Finduilas was 40 years younger she would be likely jealous of the woman in front of her indeed. But at her age, she marvels at the poise of the White Lady, her impenetrable defense sorrowfully crafted and perfected at such a young age.

“Lady Finduilas.” the White Lady greets, eyes wide with slight panic. A dust of pink is on her pale cheeks, but it is more likely due to the cloak Finduilas had seen her second-born wrap around Éowyn's shoulders. Not so frosty, after all, not to those who are looking, those who are deemed worthy.

Finduilas reaches out, adjusts the collar of the mantle. “It suits you.” She tells the younger woman. Éowyn smiles back at her, soft and hesitant, sweet as a young fawn, gentle like a spring breeze. Finduilas has heard of this woman of war, she who has slain the Witch-King. She thinks that the days of peace ahead shall suit Éowyn very well all the same.

“Come, tell me about Rohan.” She says, drawing Éowyn’s hand to sit next to her. “I never had the chance to visit Meduseld.”

The younger woman smiles in agreement, but hesitates and says, "This used to be yours? It is very beautiful."

"Aye, I gave my sons something of mine when they became of age." She tells Éowyn. "My eldest, my ring. My youngest, my mantle."

It was a last gift of Dol Amroth, a land she has not returned to for four decades. A memory of loveliness in far days, of grief and sorrow. But in Faramir's hands, in the hands of Faramir's promised, new memories will be woven in among the stars.

lv.

She weeps when King Elessar proclaims the union of Faramir of Gondor and Éowyn of Rohan. King Elessar looks at Faramir with some sort of paternal pride, which is readily returned in the odd moments he is not looking at his wife. In Éowyn there is none of the sternness, the sorrow that had been in her countenance for years, and as she meets the gaze of her husband a heavy weight has lifted from her. How lucky they are, Finduilas thinks, to love one another and be loved in return; and that they could have years and decades of peace wed to one another.

Boromir holds her gently, but he, too, is repressing glad tears of his own. Boromir has been much of a father to Faramir, has always indulged and cared for his younger brother in Finduilas’ absence. She hopes he can find someone to love, like Faramir and Éowyn, but she also knows that he will need to first adjust to a world with a king.

After the first dance Faramir glides over to the two of them, giddy like a teenager again. Finduilas dabs away a tear at the sight of her sons standing next to each other, noble and brave men of Gondor, both Princes and Stewards in King Elessar’s reign. She is not strong enough to dance with her sons, but she is still strong enough to push Boromir towards the direction of some Rohirrim ladies clearly in need of a dance partner. Faramir kneels down in front of her chair, uncaring of his nice velvet robes brushing the floor, and embraces her tightly. “Thank you for everything, mother.” His voice is thick. “For all these years carrying our burden. For being here for us.”

“You sentimental fool.” Finduilas teases. “This day belongs to you and Éowyn,” She cradles his cheek, “Be merry! Go!”

She kisses his forehead and sends him off to his wife, both of them dazzlingly beautiful and so in love, both of them smiling at each other with such wide grins that there can be no doubt of their devotion towards one another.

“Mudrien.” she tells her handmaiden. “We’ve spent many years in Minas Tirith.” 

“We have, my lady.” Mudrien answers. Mudrien had been a young girl when she had followed Lady Finduilas’ entourage, barely higher than her waist, Finduilas remembers. She had not expected to fall in love in Minas Tirith, not at first. But decades have passed yet she still cannot fall in love with the city itself. 

Faramir is leading his wife across the hall, beautiful silken gowns and robes flowing together. They will build a beautiful home in Ithilien, Finduilas knows. Boromir, who is once again in the company of soldiers, chatting with Éomer King and his eored. He has never found much love in travelling, but perhaps he will no longer see Minas Tirith as a cage, as Finduilas had found it.

She retires early, knowing that the festivities of the youth will carry on until the early hours of the morning. She has a journey to arrange, after all.

lvi.

Both her sons wanted to escort her back home, but Finduilas knows that her part in their life has come to an end. Faramir has a family to build with Éowyn, and Boromir is chafing to be let out to lead armies of Gondor again. Finduilas will not take them away from their loves, their future. 

Éowyn wears her mantle, calls her mother and kisses her goodbye in the way of the Rohirrim. King Elessar comes to her as Captain Thorongil, clad in the muted colours of a ranger. Imrahil helps her up into the carriage, then leaves for his own horse. Her sons quickly dart into the carriage, giving her one last embrace.

“We will miss you dearly, mother.” Boromir says, his tone echoing that of his brother’s. “Will you not give us more time together?”

“Most of our time has been spent.” Finduilas says lightly, “Yet there will never be enough time.” Even as she says this she grows wearier, for she knows how lacking she has been as a mother. Their duties have always set them apart, but she is feeling selfish. She has always been extremely selfish.

“I miss the sea so very much.” She murmurs in Boromir’s arms. “My beloved is waiting for me. Can’t you see him? He is so proud of the both of you. Can you forgive me, my sons, for wanting to go to him?”

His grip tightens, and Faramir kneels down by her side, pressing his head against her arm. "I will take good care of her." Mudrien promises quietly.

Finally her sons let her go, leaving the carriage to her and Mudrien. "Goodbye, mother." Faramir says. "Goodbye." Boromir echoes.

"Goodbye, my sons." She replies weakly.

lvii.

The tide beats on the cliff side, the boats swaying gently in the waters. The cry of seagulls herald the salt in the air. There is the sound of children laughing, playing, chasing after the affronted cats that lurk the harbour. A clink of mugs as brothers get stupendously drunk and are dragged to bed by their wife and king respectively. The gentle roaring of the ocean, as the elves take their last voyage to the lands unseen. Wheels bump along grass and soil and land.

She sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finduilas hears the Horn of Gondor in her dreams, and sees the funeral barge of her second-born, drifting down the Anduin. He looks serene, but too lifeless, his hands crossed on his chest, his bow and quiver and sword lying next to him in the boat. She can only watch as the water claims him.

xlii.

Finduilas hears the Horn of Gondor in her dreams, and sees the funeral barge of her second-born, drifting down the Anduin. He looks serene, but too lifeless, his hands crossed on his chest, his bow and quiver and sword lying next to him in the boat. She can only watch as the water claims him.

She is tangled in her bed covers as she jolts awake, and the noise rouses Mudrien, who sleeps just in the next room. A harsh, unbidden thought rises within her, and, if she was just a bit awake, if her sons were here, if her husband was here, perhaps she would have been been dissuaded of her thoughts immediately.

Yet she is alone with her waking nightmare. Mudrien is a helpless enabler to all this, and she can only watch as her lady stumbles to the treasury in nothing but her shift and a simple robe.

Finduilas grasps the palantír, and her hands feel like they have been set on fire.

xliii.

She looks into the palantír and screams.

xliv.

When Gandalf and Peregrin Took arrive at Minas Tirith, they are greeted by a solemn man on the seat of Steward, and an old woman with greyed hair clad in the black clothes of mourning. Before Gandalf can greet them properly, the woman’s voice, made for gentle things, cuts at him like a knife.

“My son, Mithrandir. Where is my son?”

Gandalf stares at the remnants of the Horn of Gondor on Boromir’s lap and says nothing. Young, foolish Pippin forgets the wizard’s warning and steps forward. “Faramir died to save us, my kinsmen and me. He fell defending us from many foes.” Then the hobbit kneels, perhaps out of bravery, or perhaps of the lack thereof. "I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt."

“Pippin!” Gandalf warns, but the words have been spoken and heard. In other times he would have no fear of letting young Peregrin honour Faramir in such a way, for the Lady Finduilas and her sons have always been honourable and honest. But grief has changed the two in a way that Gandalf cannot fathom.

Boromir leans forward, and with shaking hands, softly deposits the last relic of his brother into his mother’s lap. “What use do I have of a midget?” Boromir spits, every word designed to injure. “My brother’s life is worth ten, nay, thousands of yours.”

Pippin shrinks at this, immediately cowed. “My lord.” Finduilas interjects, her pity perhaps the only gentle thing left of her. “Perhaps you would allow the halfling to keep an old woman company?”

“There is war pressing on your doorstep.” Gandalf presses, gently pushing Pippin behind him again, “You must send for aid. You must send a messenger to Rohan.”

“Aid has already been sent for.” Boromir says stoically. “We could hardly wait for the coming of the wizard to act.” Then he sighs, deep and guttural. "Still, we must thank you for Rohan." He adds.

Pippin and Gandalf exchange a look. "How did you know of Rohan, my lord?" Gandalf questions. "I did not think any messenger could have predated our arrival."

The lady smiles thinly. "How else?" She says. "The same way Saruman and Sauron spies on us, I use to our benefit."

A violent shudder rips through Pippin, drawing all of their attention. "The palantír is a dangerous artifact." Gandalf cautions. "It was how Sauron swayed the heart of Saruman. Why do you court danger as such?"

“What more can Sauron take from me, Mithrandir?” the old woman stands up with a renewed strength, flings her arms open like preparing for an execution. “How can he break me further? No, Mithrandir, the line of the Stewards has come to an end. We will die with this city."

There is something sorrowful in her, something that Gandalf remembers from years ago, when he had entered this city in the days of Ecthelion and Denethor. A young maiden, fearful and apprehensive, a stranger in her own skin. "My lady." Gandalf implores gently. "You should not lose hope. You do not need to do this."

She stares at him, meets his gaze. "My husband would have made the same decision." She finally settles on saying, and offers nothing more on that matter.

“Still, my lady, I implore you not to look into it again.” Gandalf says sternly. “Perhaps I should keep it with me for the meantime, until the darkness has passed.”

A sudden chuckle breaks the tension of the room. Boromir is still half-folded in his seat, face buried in his large hands. “Faramir would say something poetic like this. To not lose hope! Ha!” He murmurs. “He would know what to say at times like these. He would believe that the darkness would not endure. If you would excuse me.” 

The proud Steward leaves, then, his chainmail rustling against his cloak. “Do whatever you will, Mithrandir.” Finduilas sighs. “Take it. Give it to the king. Whatever. I will have people arrange rooms for the two of you.”

xlv.

"They're both so scary, Gandalf." Pippin says timidly in the privacy of their room. "They're not like Faramir described."

Gandalf gives the hobbit a pitying glance. "Love holds a remarkable power over us all, and Man are affected particularly strongly by it. It is their strength, and also their greatest weakness."

“Do you mean to say grief?” 

Gandalf stares at Pippin fondly, this child even among his own people. “They are one and the same.” He says. "Mortals such as Boromir and Finduilas, even Faramir, are born with love and grief etched into their bones. It is the curse of their lands, their titles, their eternal fight against the forces of darkness. Their love drives them to the extremes that they must take to defend the West against Sauron's encroaching evil, and their grief motivates them to fight even harder."

His gaze softens even further and he looks out into the night sky of Minas Tirith. "Aragorn, too, carries love and grief intimately."

He thinks for a moment that Pippin's curiosity is finally cowed, but hobbits have always proven to be the most hardy of peoples. "I never noticed." Pippin says. "In Aragorn, or in Faramir. They were sad sometimes, yes, but they've always been happy and optimistic."

"Ah." Gandalf exclaims, his eyes twinkling in mirth. "Perhaps because they are in the presence of those who are happy and optimistic, as you say." Pippin frowns and stares up at Gandalf in clear puzzlement, but the wizard offers nothing more on this.

xlvi.

Finduilas finds the halfling watching the bright beacons, still burning against the horizon after days of being lit. She clears her throat delicately, and the hobbit startles. He turns around, and there is clear apprehension in his eyes. He seems young, a mere child.

“Forgive me!” She tells the halfling, regret deep in her voice. “You were my son’s companion, and I desecrate his last memory by being such an ungrateful host.”

"There is-" The hobbit clears his throat, "That is no matter, my lady. I was not offended."

"Master Hobbit, if I may," she begins, then changes her mind. She will not burden this young soul again by asking him the manner of Faramir's death. "Could you share a story or two of your time with my son?"

Mudrien guides them both to a nearby bench, and Finduilas listens patiently as the hobbit begins a story of Lothlórien haltingly, then animatedly, even jumping up on the bench to act out scenes and dialogues.

At the end of it, she tells him honestly, “I am glad that Faramir was able to visit the Elves. As a child, he had always been so fascinated by them. I am glad that he was able to journey to the places he had always wanted to go. And I am glad that he could have a friend such as you, Master Hobbit!"

xlvii.

At the aftermath of the battle, Steward meets Ranger at the broken, shattered gates of Minas Tirith. Boromir wants to hate the man in front of him, but there is none to be mustered.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn." The man greets. "Hail Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor."

Boromir removes his blood stained helm, observes this man who has claimed his brother's life. "Were you a friend to Faramir?" He questions in a harsh demand.

Aragorn replies calmly, "On my part, yes. He called me brother, captain, and king."

Boromir looks up to the blood-red sky and sighs again. "Then that is enough for me." He says, then adds, as if an afterthought, but it is there nonetheless, "My king."

xlviii.

As the army makes for the Black Gate, Finduilas sits in the House of the Stewards alone, sorting through Faramir's belongings. She knows that Boromir will not be able to handle this for a long time, but Finduilas has had practice. Her hands touch fabric that is familiar and smooth. Her mantle, a last gift from Dol Amroth, passed onto Faramir. He has taken care of it very well, yet he will have no chance of giving it to his own beloved.

The evening sky twinkles at her. "Mudrien." She says. "Perhaps we could tailor this into a quilt? A bed cover?"

"That could be done easily, my lady." Mudrien answers. She doesn't ask why, but Finduilas tells her all the same. "With the amount of fabric, two can be made easily for hobbits, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes." Mudrien answers, "That can be done."

Finduilas drags her hand across the mantle, caresses it, then gives it to Mudrien to hold on to. "I will not have my son's belongings gather dust in an attic." She says. "Have his books sent to the library, his weapons to the armoury, to be used by Boromir's sons. His clothes, too."

"Yes, my lady." Mudrien replies. "Should we wait for Lord Boromir's return?"

Finduilas shakes her head. "He can find fault with me later." She answers. "I will spare him the pain."

xlix.

As she had predicted Boromir does not ask her of Faramir's belongings, or his rooms, or his horse and weapons. He returns from the Black Gate subdued, an easy rapport with the king but muted all the same. Finduilas fears for him slightly, what it would mean for him to not have the favour of the King Elessar, but perhaps out of affection to Faramir, the king allows Boromir to retain the title of Steward.

At the wedding of the King Elessar and his Queen, Finduilas finds him staring up at the night sky. "Éomer King approached me earlier." He says. "He asked if we would see the union of Rohan and Gondor further, and asks if I find his sister an appropriate match."

"He is a young king, and a friend of King Elessar's." Finduilas says evenly. "And the Lady Éowyn, from what I have heard, is a spirited and beautiful woman. She may make a good wife for you. Perhaps one day you will come to love one another.”

Her son turns to look at her, then. "I have tried talking to her." He admits. "I do not understand her."

A deep sorrow suddenly overtakes Finduilas, and she begins to weep. "I only want you to be happy!" She exclaims to an alarmed Boromir. "All I wanted was for you and your brother to be happy, to grow up loved! To be good men, honourable men!"

"And you have done us well, mother." Boromir says quickly, gathering her into his arms. "You have done everything we could have ever wanted. You protected us and guided us. Both Faramir and I are blessed to call you mother!"

The sudden bout of tears drains the energy out of Finduilas, and she sags slightly in her son's strong hold. "We are running out of time." She says mournfully. "It is in these days of peace that I realise how little time we have had together; how little time we have yet to spend."

"Mother?" Boromir queries, but Finduilas has turned her gaze to Mudrien. "It is time to go home, Mudrien." She rasps, unhearing of Boromir's sharp intake of breath. "The sea beckons us."

l.

At the gates of Minas Tirith, King Elessar comes to her as Captain Thorongil, clad in the muted colours of a ranger. 

"Will you not stay, my lady?" He asks kindly.

Finduilas looks up at this stranger who was Thorongil and now king, and it is like the wounds in her heart are being forcefully re-opened, torn apart and laid bare all of a sudden.

"This city has taken my husband from me. This world, my son. I have no desire to stay in a place that only stands for sorrow to me. Every stone of this city, every corner, every flower, they remind me of my husband and my son. They are both out of reach." She says gently. "I am afraid the years have drained me, my king. There is nothing else I can offer you save the service and allegiance of my sons, which you already have."

He bows to her respectfully as Boromir escorts her onto the carriage that Imrahil has prepared. He will go with her to Dol Amroth, and return in the spring to assume his duties as Prince of Ithilien and King Elessar's Steward.

The entourage begins to move.

“I miss the sea so very much.” She murmurs in Boromir’s arms. “My beloved is waiting for me. Can’t you see him? He is so proud of you. And your brother, too. My baby. He is so happy. Can you forgive me, my son, for wanting to go to them?”

Boromir's grip around her tightens, the sway of the carriage reminding her of the sway of a boat, which she had oft frequented as a young child. "It is alright, mother." Her son rasps. "There is nothing you need to seek forgiveness for."

She closes her eyes, lets the gentle movement of the carriage carry her away.

li.

The tide beats on the cliff side, the boats swaying gently in the waters. The cry of seagulls herald the salt in the air. There is the sound of children laughing, playing, chasing after the affronted cats that lurk the harbour. A clink of mugs as a man sits with his cousins at a tavern not known to him, at a faraway home that is not known to him. The gentle roaring of the ocean, as the elves take their last voyage to the lands unseen. Wheels bump along grass and soil and land.

She sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter @hornet394 ! Largely a political twitter now, but I mean, my city is literally being brought under tyrannical dictatorship, what else am I supposed to tweet about?


End file.
